


Take Me Anywhere That's Somewhere

by Westgate (Harkpad)



Series: Take Me Anywhere [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Clint Needs a Hug, Drama, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 22:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7659475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harkpad/pseuds/Westgate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The jerks always win, it seems. Clint sees too many similarities in the young boy who sits on the steps of their apartment doing his homework, but some important differences, too. Maybe this kid can be saved. With Phil and Clint on his side, maybe he can win.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take Me Anywhere That's Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

> The child abuse described is not very graphic, but do take care.

The night is cold and wet, that cold and wet of early November when winter is in sight but still in the distance. It’s just cold enough to keep a chill on his exposed skin, and there’s no ‘getting used to it’ like early fall, no. This is late fall, and Clint’s leather jacket over a threadbare purple sweatshirt is barely enough.

He ignores the cold, though, and sits on the edge of the roof with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tight. He’s trying to hold himself together; he’s trying to stay on the edge without careening over, and his knuckles are white from the effort. The memory of youthful laughter echoes in his ear and he closes his eyes against it.

He pulls out his phone. “Phil? Yeah,” he says, and sucks in a deep breath.

He hasn’t asked much of Phil outside of work before, though they’ve been friends and do have a regular table at a local pub for their twice-monthly acoustic music night. Jasper had dragged them to a few karaoke nights over the years as well, and Phil did help Clint move into his current apartment in exchange for pizza that night and a trip to a Yankees game.

They are close friends, really, and Clint’s been harboring a crush to rival the best, but asking for things wasn’t Clint’s strong suit, and this is a first. “Are you busy?” he asks, and pushes the childish fear that he’s not someone who gets help down into his gut.

Forty minutes later, Phil pulls up to the curb in front of Clint’s apartment complex and Clint climbs in, slamming the door too hard when he closes it. Phil’s dressed in jeans and a bright blue t-shirt with a white button down shirt over top and Clint blinks and is distracted by how Phil is really here to help, no questions asked.

“Where to?” Phil asks, his voice even, and Clint can practically hear him trying to keep curiosity out of it.

Clint appreciates it. “Anywhere. Somewhere,” he says. “With noise.” He needs noise to drown out the vivid sense-memory of a boy’s laughter, of a small voice saying “Hi Clint,” the muted sound of crying in an empty stairwell late at night.

Phil frowns, starts to say something, and changes his mind. He shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb. “Okay. I know a place.”

Clint slides into the oak chair at the round table with scratches and cigarette burns all over the top, and Phil doesn’t even look at Clint as he orders two double gin and tonics from the waiter who calls Phil by name. The waiter, a late twenty-something with smart and kind amber colored eyes that would normally send a thrill through Clint’s body, looks at them both and just nods before heading to the bar with their order.

Phil gives Clint his wish – the club is noisy on several levels. It’s crowded, an adult clientele who are all chatting and laughing to create a din. There’s also a ten-piece jazz band playing standards with a smooth skill that Clint appreciates after just one song. Phil doesn’t press him to talk. He sips his drink and they listen to the band for a few songs with only the sound of their applause and the noise of the bar in between pieces.

Clint listens and tries to quiet the despair that keeps rearing its ugly head when the noise drops a bit, but he bites his lip a little too hard and Phil passes him a napkin to wipe off the blood. He lets himself close his eyes for a moment, but the vision of a lanky seventh grader with shaggy brown hair and bright green eyes flares in his head and he opens them again to get rid of the thought. He sucks a deep breath and takes another drink.                           

Phil watches and orders another drink when Clint’s runs dry; he gets himself a tonic water with lemon as the band winds down for a break.

“I don’t really want to get drunk,” Clint says after the waiter brings the drink Phil ordered. “But thanks.” He’s tired, exhausted really, but the music is seeping into his bones and filling his head, just how he wanted when he called Phil.

Phil smiles, leans over, and grabs Clint’s drink to steal a sip. “I’ll help you with it if you want.”

He still doesn’t ask what's wrong, and they wordlessly listen to the next set of the band.

Phil loves jazz music – he and Jasper are known to annoy the hell out of anyone who goes out with them by delving into analytical reviews of obscure local musicians – so Clint doesn’t feel bad about not talking tonight. The music washes over him and he closes his eyes. He can’t stop the memory this time.

_It was a rainy night a few months ago when he stumbled into his apartment building after a long mission with Phil and Natasha, five days in the desert and barely any sleep. The op had gone smoothly, but he stumbled in exhaustion over the entryway into the building. A quiet but sure “Are you okay, Mister Barton?” made him look over the little alcove behind the stairs._

_A boy Clint had seen from time to time, who looked ten or eleven years old, was sitting cross-legged under the stairs with a textbook in his lap and a yellow pad of paper and pencil on the floor next to him. Clint straightened up and nodded. “Yeah, thanks. I’m okay.”_

_The boy grinned and gave him a thumbs up._

_“You doin’ your homework?” Clint asked, moving a bit closer._

_The boy had a gleam in his green eyes when he answered, “Yes, sir. I got all As last semester and I’m not gonna let a lousy night get in the way of doing it again. I have a math test tomorrow.”_

_Clint smiled. “All As, huh? What grade are you in?”_

_“7 th,” the boy answered. “I go to Number 83 and it’s really hard.” _

_The kid was older than Clint thought, then. He had dark circles under his eyes; it was already ten at night. “What’s your name?”_

_“Jason. You’re Mister Barton. My dad knows your neighbor, Miss Eileen.”_

_“Who’s your dad?”_

_“Frank Billings.” The kid sounded apologetic when he said it, and Clint understood why. Frank Billings was an asshole. Frank knew Eileen, sure, as in he pestered her about her dog almost daily and had been dubbed the crankiest tenant in the building. Clint almost slugged him once for cussing at one of the older tenants._

_“I didn’t know he had a kid,” Clint said._

_Jason shrugged. Clint looked down at the notebook and leaned over. “You need help?”_

_“Yeah, I’m kind of stuck.”_

_Clint paused, grinned, and kicked the kid gently in the shin. “Sorry, punk. I suck at school. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Jason laughed but was clearly disappointed, so Clint shrugged. “I guess I could try and help.”  He doubted it, but the kid did look like he needed to go to bed sooner rather than later. Clint sat down next to him, noticed his torn jeans and faded canvas tennis shoes, and pulled the notebook into his lap. It took them a good fifteen minutes, but they figured it out together and Jason laughed in delight._

“Clint, are you okay?”  ” Phil says, loud over the din of the bar. He leans forward and rests his hand on top of Clint’s, a new but welcome invasion of space. Phil’s touch grounds him.

No. No he’s not. His memory is jumping around between a lanky twelve-year old with mousy brown hair and glimmering green eyes and a short, dusty-haired ten year-old in Iowa who had the same haunted eyes. He's seeing Jason now, seeing the fear and hidden tears and jutting chin. He's seeing defiance and resignation in shoulders too small to be carrying the weight they're burdened with. He's seeing potential even he didn't have.  
  
_"More math homework?" He asked one rainy April night. He was tired, but seeing Jason's earnest eyes lifted him a bit._  
  
_"No, sir," Jason replied. He was writing furiously in a notebook and paying no attention to Clint._  
  
_Clint watched him write for a moment and then asked, "Did you get dinner tonight, kid?"_  
  
_A sharp shake of the head was all Jason gave him, so he traipsed up the stairs to his apartment, took a minute to change into his ratty jeans and purple t-shirt and wash his face, and made a quick phone call to the corner Chinese place._  
  
_When he set a paper plate piled with cashew chicken down next to the kid Jason finally stopped writing and looked at the plate and then up at Clint with owlish eyes. "That's for me?" He said with a note of worry in his voice. Clint got lost for a second in the memory of cafeterias at schools where he was surrounded by kids with packed lunches, sandwiches and fruit and chips and snacks, as he picked at the weary-looking frozen pizza and the fifty-cent piece size bowl of applesauce that came in the free lunch._  
  
_"Yeah, it's for you. You like chicken?"_  
  
_Jason stared at the plate again and then started writing again. "I can't pay you back."_  
  
_Clint sighed and sat down next to him. This time he noticed how dirty the kid's clothes were. "I ordered too much, and I gotta go out of town for a day or two for work tomorrow. Someone needs to eat it and I don't care if you can pay me back. It'll go to waste otherwise."_  
  
_Jason didn't answer, but he finished his sentence and set the notebook aside. Clint told him stories of Paris and Berlin and other famous places he's been while he ate._  
  
He looks at Phil and takes another drink. "I'm not okay, but this is helping," he says with a shrug, but even he can hear the lie as the words leave his mouth. Phil raises an eyebrow and Clint takes another drink.  
  
"You want to stay at my place tonight?" Phil asks, and Phil is different than anyone else because Clint actually considers going to his place for a moment, but he really doesn't know what to do. He takes the last of the drink and runs his hands through his hair, stares at the table.  
  
Once he’d met Jason, he looked for him every time he came into the building, and ended up giving him snacks or dinner at least once a week. He recognized the signs of neglect immediately, and started keeping notes on a pad of paper he keeps at his kitchen counter. He knew documentation counted for a lot.  
  
It only took two months before he figured he had enough to call Child Services with. It took him a week of nightmares and another set of bruises on Jason's arms before he mustered the courage to actually call.  
  
"Can you come back to my place for a bit instead? I know it's late."  
  
Phil just nods and stands up. "Let's go."  
  
When they get to Clint’s apartment complex, Clint guides Phil up the stairs and averts his own gaze from the corner under the stairs.  He heads straight for the kitchen and pours each of them a glass of ice water.  
  
He ushers Phil to the couch and they sit. Phil scoots close enough for Clint to lean into him if he wants to, and they're suddenly closer than Clint ever believed they'd get. He leans against Phil, figuring in for a penny and all that. "I thought I wanted to get drunk tonight," he whispers.  
  
"Doesn't sound like a good idea," Phil replies.

Clint takes a deep breath and drops his head on Phil's shoulder. He might be crossing a friendship boundary here, but he's too tired to care.

"You don't have to tell me what's going on, you really don't," Phil says. "But maybe I can help."  
  
Clint closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath.  
  
_"I want to help you, kid," he'd said to Jason the first time he saw bruises. He felt anger bubbling right under his skin, and a weird thread of fear, too. This shouldn't be happening to this kid. This kid was different, so smart and quick to smile and so kind. This kid helped people around the building without asking for anything. This kid got straight As (and had run up and knocked on Clint's door just to show him his report card). This kid tucked himself quietly in a corner to cry so no one would notice (he'd yelled at Clint the third time he'd found the kid crying - "no one else sees me, what the hell! Leave me alone!")._

_None of this should be happening to such a good kid. But it was._

_“Leave me alone,” Jason had whispered that first time Clint saw bruises._

_“Nope. That’s one thing I can’t do,” Clint answered. He sat down next to Jason, who was hiding in the corner of the rooftop area this time. Clint had gone looking for him when the hairs on his neck stood up as he looked at the door to Jason’s apartment on his way to his own. Now, even in the dim light of the rooftop, he could see a huge purple bruise climbing above the neckline of Jason’s faded t-shirt. “You wanna tell me what happened, or do you want me to guess?”_

_Jason glared at him, that piercing glare that pre-teens and teenagers alone can muster. “You can’t help. Even if I tell you.”_

_Clint remembered that desperate, lonely feeling that no matter who knew, the asshole dad would still win. No matter how much evidence there was, the crappy father with a hard fist would always come out on top. Clint had lied his way through enough doctors’ visits, wondering how the hell a grown adult could be as stupid as to believe the shit he was shoveling, and concluding that it was simply because his father would always win._

_It was if it were a rule of the universe._

_It was also clear that telling Jason about the inch-thick file he had about him and Frank Billings would send the boy into a panic. Instead, Clint went with, “Do you need medical attention? I can get you some without a trip to the emergency room or any contact with officials.”_

_That simple offer opened the floodgate on the tears._

_Jason huddled into Clint’s side and cried, thick, heavy sobs that were strangely silent – except that Clint knew exactly how to cry that same way. Clint’s shirt grew damp, and he wrapped his arm around Jason’s shoulders and pulled him close. He didn’t offer any platitudes; there was nothing that this twelve year-old survivor could really use, so he just held him for a while. When he settled down, his breathing still uneven but not quite as ragged, Clint said it again. “Do you think anything’s broken?”_

_Jason shook his head. “No. He’s too smart for that.”_

_“Do you want a Sprite to help settle your stomach?” Clint asked. “I like it when I’m having a tough time.” Jason agreed, so Clint pulled Jason downstairs and grabbed a Sprite from his fridge. They sat on the steps of the landing for a bit, drinking._

_“I have to go home,” Jason whispered, finally._

_“Is he gonna give you more?” Clint asked._

_He didn’t have a solution if the answer was yes._

_“I doubt it. He usually leaves after something like this. At least for a night or two.”_

_“He leaves you alone for a couple of nights?”_

_“Those are the good nights. Makes this kinda worth it, really,” Jason shrugs._

“That was a month ago, but the last time I saw him his lip was bloody and swollen and he was holding his arm like it was busted.” Clint says to Phil. “I called the cops and CPS and stood watch as they hauled his dad to one cop car and him to another.”

“You did the right thing, Clint,” Phil says, turning so he could reach over and take Clint’s hand. Clint stares at their fingers, laced together, and shakes his head.

“As they were taking him to the car, he saw me. He started yelling. Kept saying he didn’t want to go back to the system, that I should’ve kept my goddamned nose out of it, that he thought I was his friend.”  His voice breaks on the last words.

He looks up at Phil and meets his gaze. Phil’s eyes look like a lifeline. “I know what the system’s like, Phil. I wouldn’t wish any kid into the system, at least not like it was when I went through it. But Jason was gonna get killed before he was sixteen the way this was going. I had to call.”

“Was that tonight?” Phil says, and he squeezes Clint’s hand tight.

“Yeah. Yeah,” he sighs, and closes his eyes again, and feels Phil’s hand run down his cheek.

“I’m not going to pretend to understand this situation,” Phil says, and his voice sounds like a soft fleece blanket. “But you had to get him out of that house, and that’s it. You did the right thing no matter what happens next.”

“The foster system sucks, Phil. Especially for a kid his age.” His mind flashes to Barney, standing stock-still while a foster parent screams at him for not taking care of the little kids properly. To himself, jutting his chin at a woman who was half an inch from his face, yelling at him for being a waste of space. He was sure not all foster families were like that, but older kids tended to get stuck in some pretty crappy situations.

But Phil doesn’t seem to be listening. He’s dropped Clint’s hand and is staring into space.

“Phil?” Clint says, and worry flashes through his chest.

Phil snaps his gaze back to Clint. “I know someone.”

“What?”

“I know someone. A couple, actually, older. He used to work for SHIELD. He’s retired and they signed up to be a foster family just a month or two ago. I don’t think they have anyone yet.”

“They have to be in this district,” Clint says, trying to quash the spark of hope that jumps at Phil’s words.

“They are. I know they are. They don’t live far from here. Clint,” Phil says, grinning. “They’re good people. I promise. And they want to help someone older. They told me when we chatted about it. They feel like they could help older kids better and they said they might even be willing to adopt.”

“It’s not that easy, Phil,” Clint says, and he stands up and starts to pace. “He’ll get placed somewhere tonight or tomorrow, and getting him moved can be tough. We don’t even know if he won’t get sent back to his dad.”  

Phil stands up, too, and interrupts Clint’s path. He grasps Clint’s arms and forces him to stand still. “We can try. Chris and Ellie have a good lawyer – she’s an attorney as well – and they’ve done their research. We can try.”

And that’s it. Clint gets caught up in Phil’s sheer force of will, and Phil’s on the phone five minutes later explaining to his old friends Ellie and Chris how they could help save a twelve year-old boy who is a straight-A student and likes to help everyone he meets. They talk for a while and promise to let Phil know if they manage to find and help Jason.

Clint watches in wonder as Phil talks, and when Phil hangs up, he pulls Phil close and kisses him. Phil grins and kisses him back, long and slow. When they pull apart, Clint presses his forehead to Phil’s.

“I kinda suck at asking for things, but will you stay? With me? Tonight and even after?”

Phil smiles, a kind of blurry-at-the-edges smile that’s warm. “I kinda suck at asking for things, too, but I’ve been hoping you’d ask that for a long time, so yes. I will. And we’ll get your friend the help he needs and maybe things will go our way.”

Clint’s too tired to do anything but sleep, so they clean up and crawl into his bed. Phil is there when the nightmare rips him from sleep, and strokes his chest and forehead gently until he can even his breathing out and fall back asleep. Late the next day, after they’ve made dinner plans and upcoming weekend plans and plans with Phil suddenly become a real thing, Phil gets a call from his friends.

Jason will be placed with them at least temporarily, and would Clint mind maybe being at their house when Jason arrives, to make him more comfortable?

He agrees immediately, considers what kind of new-start gift he can get for Jason, and thinks maybe this time, none of the jerks will win.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Unseen Guest's "Anywhere Somewhere" from the album "Out There."


End file.
